Luster
by Sandshrew777
Summary: Our nightmares can control us. Our nightmares can change us. Follow the juxtaposition of light and darkness warring within and without Riley Poole, and discover which one is the victor.


**Author's Note: This work takes place before the events of the movie. I assume Riley lives in D.C. but if this, or any other assumption I have made, is incorrect, please leave me a note in your review and I will revise it. Thank you, and enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Riley Poole, and even if I did, I doubt he'd be so complacent as to sit here for me and be my muse. I own nothing in this piece but my own imagination.**

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_"Riley..."_

_The voice comes unbidden and he twirls about, searching for its origin. His eyes push past the dull, kelly green grass, the bending willow stooped by the weight of heavy winters and terrified felines, the roughly hewn crimson picnic table etched with family cookouts and teenagers' admissions of devotion. The search ends when his eyes alight upon the familiar log cabin, its warmth calling to him with a voice that seems ever-familiar._

_"Riley?"_

_From this side of the campground, he can only see two of the beautiful bay windows, candlelight illuminating each of them with a dim glow. As he walks closer, leaving the campground to fade into grey, smoke rises from the chimney; someone lit the fire. Its crackling heat, its welcome warmth, its sleep-inducing torso rise from the sacrificed logs and draw him ever closer into its fiery embrace._

_"Riley."_

_Suddenly, just as his feet touch the dilapidated welcome mat, the sturdy oaken door swings shut of its own accord. Confused, he reaches for the handle, only to find emptiness in its place. He thrusts his fists upon the door, but it thrusts back, refusing entry. An idea sparks, and he retreats, moving towards the window. What once was encapsulated by a wondrous light now appears to have been swallowed up by a conspicuous darkness---the candle, gone; the fire, out; the warmth, deadened._

_"Riley!"_

_It emanates from the cabin, this ominous, threatening voice that overrides and shuts down all of his thoughts of the cabin as a haven, a refuge, a welcome friend. He runs, turning his back on the cabin and the voice, only to find the campground evaporated into nothingness. He screams into the void, and the void screams back, swallowing him in sound._

"AWAKE. AWAKE. AWAKE," the voice commands.

He groans as he stirs, eyes mercilessly attacked by the sunburst hidden behind the cheap blinds that line his apartment window. Like a duckling's first waddle on land, he stumbles over to his computer and deactivates the alarm program he created. One less annoying appliance driving up his electricity bill, he'd reasoned. It may not be the kindest voice to wake up to, but at least it's a voice and not that infernal beeping.

Yawning as if his luxurious ten and a half hours of slumber were not enough, he raises the blinds like a tentative child ripping the band-aid off of a day-old papercut. The light cascades into the room, brightening each corner of the abysmally miniature apartment. He thought it a steal at only $575 a month, utilities included, especially in D.C., where nothing came inexpensively. If only he'd noticed just how claustrophobic the miniscule kitchen was and how the living room had to double as a bedoom, he often thinks, maybe he'd've found a roomier space somewhere else across from some hot girl who did yoga in the morning or something.

As he releases the strings for the blinds, he notes that his pajamas---baby blue with little starships, a treasure scavenged from happier days---feel tight in the front. Ritual takes over as he crosses to the cordoned off area also known as the bathroom, letting go of the night's pent-up waste in the tiny toilet. The acrid stench of human waste greets his nostrils as he stands there, the vermillion excrete assaulting his tired irises. A quick flush sends it away, replaced by an all-encompassing clearness.

Rejoining the sunlit room, he nearly walks into the bumpy, lumpy futon he'd slept in, its hideous orange hue no doubt causing at least five unfortunate, fashion-conscious window shoppers mini-strokes before he'd swept it up. Apparently, some furniture designer had thought it was cutting edge---don't they all, he asks himself cynically as he moves to his computer, ordering it to connect to the Internet.

As his computer takes care of its business, he ransacks the kitchen. This morning, he chooses from the box on the counter, the sunlight logo of the bakery smiling up at him as he selects a coconut creme pastry to meet its culinary end in his stomach. To go along with it, he locates his porcelain coffee mug---with the letters "1337 d00d" littering it in several black fonts---and pours some ice cold milk from the ivory fridge into it.

The milk returned to its rightful spot within the mini-Ice Age transmuted into the present, he takes his breakfast to his computer desk, where he resumes checking his e-mail. The usual; penis enlargement pills, a PayPal scam, a letter from Ben, an MSN updater...

A letter from Ben?

Ben Gates?

Suddenly righting his posture and setting the milk and donut aside, he opens the e-mail from his associate. As he reads it, his face contorts into a gallery of expressions: surprise that Ben needs his help; confusion as to what Ben wants from him; anticipation at the thought of unraveling a long-lost secret.

Typing rapidly, he quickly pens an affirmative reply, leaning back in his computer chair as he clicks the 'Send' button. His mind practically trembles at the thought of adventure, of leaving plain old D.C. for something new, something exciting, something decidedly not this. As he wolfs down his milk and coconut pastry, the incandesence that once filled the room seems to abate slowly, until all that remains is a tiny patch of sunlight on Riley Poole's visage; from within, an eager hope burns, a candle in the window of a homey log cabin, and although the sunlight vanishes behind a cloud, the hope never extinguishes itself, despite the overwhelming darkness.


End file.
